Hot Ice
by PassionTep
Summary: What Vaughn really found . . . "Unveiled" 4.11.04 (Warnings: includes Lauren-bashing, SV romance, and R rating later on . . . Enjoy)
1. Prologue

Prologue?  
  
How the discovery of Lauren should have gone . . . (note: apply all disclaimers, we don't own nothin') LAUREN BASHING EXTRAORDINAIRE  
  
* * * * *  
  
Michael Vaughn tried not to grimace as Lauren moved in for a kiss.  
  
"I missed you."  
  
His eyes widened as he recalled Jack's words of earlier that day. Lauren's whiny, wanna-be-trying-hard British accent barely registered in Vaughn's brain as he tried to remember the exact phrasing the senior Bristow had used as he berated, er, warned Vaughn.  
  
" . . . bath." Vaughn nearly polka-ed for joy. She was finally done babbling. He knew now. He knew she was lying to him. He knew his "blessed" "darling" "wife" was definitely fucking him. Well, screwing him. Well, screwing him over (and sideways and upside down). Oh. Crap. She was lying to him and that was all that mattered.  
  
He knew something was off, but now he needed proof. He lifted the bed skirt, rummaged through drawers, peeked under floorboards, and even tried to find a hidden panel in the closet. Nothing. Vaughn gazed at the ceiling. *Jeebus. Where the hell would she hide her shit?*  
  
A golden light streamed from the off-white suitcase at the top of the closet. Actually, it was just blocking the light bulb. Vaughn ripped it off the shelf and laid it on the ground. He opened it cautiously. Who knew what an unpredictable woman like Lauren would place in her suitcase? There could be any number of random items just waiting to give him rare, incurable diseases.  
  
It was empty, but Vaughn was too smart to give up like that (that's why he went through super-spy training). He pressed gently along the edges of the bottom until it lifted. *Ha. Ha. Bitch. I win.*  
  
He shifted through the numerous semi-automatic machine weapon parts. He passed over the diseases in small tubes marked with, "malaria", "small pox", "anthrax", "sickle cell anemia" (A/N: inside joke) , and "influenza". He skipped the wigs, fake passports, and sleazy outfits. Then he found it.  
  
Gulping nervously, Vaughn turned the picture over. He saw Lauren's face (as it looks when she was in the middle of faking an orgasm). Next a shoulder. Then some hair. Blond hair. Vaughn looked over at the mirror on the wall quickly. Nope, he was definitely still a brunette. Vaughn turned to the second picture. An after-shot. There she was. There he was, Sark, and there was his . . . well . . . his "manhood". Vaughn laughed at this thought. Sark wasn't much of a man then.  
  
*So I had been mistaken. She wasn't just screwing me. That would explain it.*  
  
"What are you doing?" an overly-fake, trying-to-be-caring-and-sincere-but-just-can't-manage-it voice wafted over to Vaughn.  
  
"Oh, Lauren. Was he the best you could get? Seriously, he's got to be only like 2 inches."  
  
"Two and a half," her snotty accent replied. "And what's it to you? He's a much better lover than you'll ever be."  
  
"Maybe that's because he could actually, gasp, care for you. Something I never did."  
  
"B - but . . ."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Shall we continue the fic? 


	2. Confessions

"B-but I - I had you fooled. I fooled everyone. I played the part perfectly. I followed all the rules. I don't underst . . . How could you not . . . But . . ." Lauren's doughy, umm, doe-y eyes turned from tears to perplexity. "I must have skipped a step."  
  
She began to count off on her fingers the rules to getting super-spy secrets through marriage. Her face scrunched together at number 32, "lap dance".  
  
"What was the next step?" She thought vacantly unaware that anyone could hear her, despite the fact that she was speaking aloud.  
  
"Pregnancy?" Vaughn suggested dryly.  
  
"Oh drats! I knew I forgot something. That came directly before declaration of love and right after sex in an elevator. Or was it on a pool table? Oh fudge. Sex on something odd, and that was directly in front of strip tease/lap dance."  
  
Lauren's eyes widened as she realized Vaughn was watching her with a skeptical smirk.  
  
"Whoops. That was classified information. I'd be much obliged if you didn't divulge this little tale to my superiors."  
  
"Sure. I won't tell your superiors. Not that it'd matter. You're probably in good standing with all of them. Or, should I say, laying." The sarcasm fled from Vaughn's voice as he continued, "I think we skipped quite a few steps, Lauren. I don't suppose it matters though, you really don't even have the A-cup for a proper lap dance."  
  
Ms. Reed blinked trying to decide if he was insulting her before deciding that he was teasing. After all, who could insult the perfect Lauren Reed? She stepped forward slowly, sensuously. Lauren lowered her eyes and bit her low lip, softly placing her hand on his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt.  
  
"Surely you don't mean that, dear?" She whimpered.  
  
A look of disgust crossed Vaughn's face as he grabbed her hand and wrenched it off of his chest. "You're kidding me, Lauren. I'm not stupid. I'm too fucking loyal, but now I see there was no need to be. Crap, I should have just slept with Sydney when I had the chance."  
  
Lauren stepped back as if she had been burned by the heat of his vehement words. "I-I don't know what to say. I thought you loved me. You don't. You never have. No one ever has. All of my life I've been used and lied to, but know one has ever loved me. My own fucking father was too tied up in his shit in D.C. My mother just screwed him over while demanding I be a perfect little spy trainee. Sark just views me as a good fuck. No - one - loves - me." She broke down sobbing.  
  
Vaughn ignored the tiny ping of pity he felt and started for the door.  
  
"Where are you going? Are you leaving me?" Lauren cried out through her tears.  
  
"Out. I need to talk to some people about some things." Vaughn replied vaguely. He wrenched the door open and took a step outside. He looked back at the pitiful blob that was Lauren. "And for the record, if you stopped focusing on yourself and got some fucking therapy, maybe someone could love you. Honestly, you're just too fucked up right now." Vaughn strode away leaving just the sound of a slamming door behind him.  
  
Lauren abruptly stopped crying and pulled out her covenant issued cell phone. She quickly dialed. "He just left me."  
  
Sark had pulled out his cell phone in the middle of it's rendition of "Stronger". (Perhaps he's overcompensating?) He listened, nodded, and replied to the other end. "Good. It's about time. My place or yours tonight?"  
  
"Yours. But, Sarkykins, he thinks your small."  
  
"Well, Lauren. I am shorter than most guys my age. It's not a big deal. We'll just kidnap him and beat him up."  
  
"No, Sark. I mean, Vaughn thinks you're really really tiny." Lauren stressed.  
  
"That's not fair of him. I'm not a full-backer thingy-magigg-fuck. I'm not a rugby player. Well, some are small, but you know what I mean."  
  
"Sark, Listen to me. Vaughn thinks that your . . .manhood is so tiny it's non-existent." Lauren's exclamation was met with silence. "this is the time you get angry and go grab your brass knuckles."  
  
"You know I work better with a knife." Lauren smiled at the memories of the "practice" they had done last week with the knife. Who knew leather cut away so easily? The couch will be forever ruined.  
  
"Perhaps we should have taken the knifes off before we reenacted the Madonna, "Like a Virgin" video."  
  
Sark continued his speech. "But, have we ever measured, darling?"  
  
"Oh, no, dear, I don't believe we have. Perhaps we should try that sometimes. Tonight. I'll bring the rope, er, measuring tape."  
  
"Hmm. Good girl, but I really don't want to play "puppet" today. The Pinocchio nose rather hurts after a while." Sark paused to listen to Lauren's non-verbal whine. "You still always know how to please me."  
  
Lauren perked back up. "Of course I do." her voice lowered to a husky whisper. "As long as you don't forget the whipped cream, we shan't have a problem."  
  
"And if I forget?" Sark growled sexily, smiling despite the growing, yet tiny bulge in his pants.  
  
"Then you'd be a naughty boy, and I'd have to punish you."  
  
"Don't tempt me." Sark groaned as he looked down at the very obviousness of his fierce erection. "Perhaps you could come over now and show me exactly how you plan on punishing me?"  
  
"Sounds like my baby needs a cold shower. Don't worry. There will be plenty of time to play "Bad Puppet" later."  
  
"Righty-O. My place. Tonight."  
  
Lauren and Sark clicked their phones shut simultaneously.

-

Eric Weiss opened the door unexpectedly causing Vaughn to fall through the portal upon which he had been leaning and into Weiss' apartment.  
  
"Dude, why are you here?"  
  
"I need advise. I wanted to talk to Syd, but I don't know how. Lauren's a spy for the covenant. Sark has a really tiny dick. I need Sydney, but -"  
  
"Wait, Sark is how small?"  
  
"He's really really really tiny. Can't be more than three and a half. Anyway, I need Sydney, but what do I say? 'Hey, Syd -'"  
  
"You're kidding me, three point five? That's impossible." Weiss interrupted again.  
  
"Well, the average is only like four inches. So it's possible. Just not likely. Plus, that's when it's flaccid. Anyway, So I say, 'Sydney, wassup? Now that I -'"  
  
"I always figured he was overcompensating for something. I mean, the clothes were a dead give away. Who really wears all that expensive black?"  
  
"Sark. OK. Now, back to me. 'Syd, Now that I know my wife is a traitorous bastard, want to go get pizza and have sex as we wait for the divorce to go through?'"  
  
"Well, that may not be the best approach. My advise is to stay away from anything that sounds like I would say it," Eric commented cautiously.  
  
"Right. So should I go with the, 'Syd, I'm an asshole. I don't deserve you.' approach?"  
  
"Well, that might work."  
  
"How about, 'You're a much better lover than Lauren could ever be. Screw me now."  
  
"Well, man, I'd advise against that one. It's a little to cave man-ish. How about the 'I've messed up big time. I don't deserve you, and I don't want you to just be the rebound girl. Let's just be friends until things get sorted out.' approach."  
  
"I don't know. I don't even know what I'm saying Just tell me what I need to say to her. If I screw this up I lose my only reason for living. If I can't have her, I don't want anybody or anything else. I need her. She's like air. I didn't realize how dead I was until she came back. Slowly my body regained sensations. I started to be able to feel again. When I'm touching her, kissing her, or even just listening or looking at her, it's like the clouds parted and I can 'see the light' as cliché as it sounds."  
  
"Wow . . ." Weiss began, but Vaughn interrupted.  
  
"She is the goddess of my idolatry. I need her. I-I love her." Vaughn finally ran out of words to speak his emotions. He slid down to the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know what to do, Weiss. I love her. I really do, but I've made such a mess of things. I should just leave it. She hates me."  
  
"Wow, man, that was deep. . . You need to talk to her."  
  
"I would, but she'll never listen to me."  
  
"If Sydney won't listen to you, force her. We'll find a way. She may not take you back right away, but you've got to try. You've got to give her a chance to talk, too. You can't just give up and not tell her any of this. You'd just take away her chances. Enough people have done that to her already."  
  
"You're right, Weiss." 

-

Sydney stood outside with a pizza box. She lowered her left hand where it had been poised to knock on Weiss' semi-opened door. 'He loves me. I'm Vaughn's air. He hates her. He knows she's a spy. Sark has a really small dick. I always figured he was overcompensating for something. That accent, seriously. Who is he kidding? Vaughn loves me. I'm his air. I'm 21% oxygen - Vaughn's air.' Sydney jumped randomly between thoughts in her chaotic mind. She tried desperately to store all of the things that had happened in a box in her mind so she could review them later.  
  
Syd's eyes widened as the conversation inside ceased, and the sound of footsteps permeated the air. She backed away, still staring at the door.  
  
A hand grasped the door knob on the other side. "I'm going to find her, Weiss. I can't wait." Vaughn's voice drifted out into the cool night air."  
  
Sydney, suddenly unfrozen from her trance, dropped the pizza and ran. 

-

-

-

-

(A/N: Next Ch. = Kinky Bad Spy sex, Good Spy Fluff and relationships, and lots of "steps". I'm also looking for a beta reader. E-mail me.)  
  
NEED TO KNOW TO UNDERSTAND THIS STORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
Note: not my personal opinions . . . 

The 12 Steps to Intimacy  
1. Eye to Body  
2. Eye to eye  
3. 300 hours of discussion (face to face or on the phone)  
4. Hand to hand  
5. Hand to shoulder  
6. Hand to waist  
7. Face to face (kissing)  
8. Hand to face  
9-12 (Saved for marriage)  
9. Touching with clothes  
10. Touching w/o clothes above waist  
11. Touching w/o clothes below waist  
12. Oral, anal, "normal", and any other sex possible 


	3. Running Away

Eric Weiss opened his front door and slipped outside for a quick run (to the deli) before bed. He tripped over a large square box.  
  
"Hmm. Pizza," he murmured aloud. He bent down to get a better gander.  
  
"It's still warm. Seems fresh. Receipt on box time was stamped only twenty minutes ago. . ." Weiss thought for a second, weighing the options in his mind. 'Run or pizza? Run? Pizza? Run? Pizza?' . . . 

-  
  
He pulled her into the darkness, pressing her against the door. She gasped as his hands created liquid fire on her skin as he roamed over her black tank top.  
  
"I never thought you'd get here," he whispered gently before claiming her lips roughly. She whimpered and put her hands on his chest. He used her distraction to thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her hands moved from their position of protest to eagerly ripping his shirt off to expose his built chest and abs.  
  
"Don't I get a chance, darling?" he asked as he took his own turn disposing of her top. He growled when he saw her black lacy bra that left little to the imagination.  
  
"Julian, please. We can do this later. We have things to discuss now." Lauren raised her hands to face level. Squashed in between her manicured fingers were the features of Sark's boyish, yet cute face. He gave her an unforgettable puppy-dog look.  
  
"They can wait." He slipped out of her grasp and pinned her hands to the wall above her head. He quickly reclaimed his stake on her lips. When he finally pulled away, with much reluctance, Lauren smirked and put her hands to his lips.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Sark, I do believe you just skipped at least five steps."  
  
"Oh, really?" He replied, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Yes, I believe there were a few things we were supposed to do before number twelve."  
  
"For the life of me, I can't imagine what those could be," Sark feigned innocence.  
  
"Well, there were a few little, not-important things." Sark was genuinely confused now by Lauren's words. He just assumed she meant three hundred hours of conversation. (They were at two hundred and ninety - seven at the last count.) "Like marriage." Lauren prompted slowly.  
  
"Oh." Sark was frozen. 'Oh, crap. What am I to do now? The little whore wants me to marry her. Fuck, she's already married. I don't even like her! She's just a good screw . . . Or is she? Fuck! I'm supposed to be using her for a little fucking in between my plans for world domination, not falling for her. Damn, I really am falling for her. Fucking hormones. If it hadn't been for them . . .'  
  
Lauren nearly burst when she saw the emotions flick across Sark's face. She loved making him squirm.  
  
"Calm, Dear. I'm only joshing. My first attempt at marriage wasn't that successful. I don't think I'll be trying it again any time soon."  
  
Sark tried not to let his sigh of relief sound too loudly. Inside, though, he was fighting back some sort of emotion of regret. "Don't worry about the steps, babe. No one follows them anyway."  
  
"Oh, Julian, but it's the way I learned them." Lauren batted her eyelashes annoying-ly.  
  
"And you've done everything else your prestigious schools taught you to?" Sark snapped, tiring of her games and whiny demeanor. 'Maybe I'm not falling after all. Maybe I'm just addicted to the sex.' Sensing the hurt/confused look on her face, Sark switched topics quickly.  
  
"What do you have in the bag?" He gestured towards the small yellow tote that had been abandoned in the entryway.  
  
"Well, you see Julian, I brought some toys - er - tools." She smiled at his raised eyebrows and continued, "I think it's time, once and for all, to find out how large you really are."  
  
"But, dear, I'm five foot -"  
  
Lauren cut him off impatiently. "No! I mean, Jules Junior."  
  
"Oh . . . him"

-  
  
"Syd, open up. Syd! Open up. It's me. We need to talk." After a long pause, Vaughn began to pound on the door again. "Sydney, open the door. Please? It's important. I just want to talk." A light flickered on upstairs. Vaughn glanced upwards hopefully. "Sydney, please. I just want to talk." He heard the deadbolt slide out of place and the lock turn. The door opened a crack. "Thank God. Syd, can I talk to you?"  
  
"I hope we'd do more than that. You look delicious!" A very feminine, yet very male voice called out. Vaughn peered at the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the abrupt change in light. He stood shocked and still as a very tall, very built man wearing a pink paisley, silk robe and a face masque gave him the eye.  
  
"What do we have here? A very hot guy in desperate need of sleep calling out for some chick." The strange man gave Vaughn another assessing look. "Hunny, if she threw you out, she definitely does not deserve you . . ." His voice trailed off as he glanced approvingly at Vaughn's suit-clad body. "Mmm Mmm."  
  
"I'm John, by the way. John Karol." Vaughn managed to close his shocked mouth finally and responded to John's overtures.  
  
"Vaughn. Michael Vaughn."  
  
"Ooo. I like it. Very James Bond. Let me guess, you work for the CIA?" John joked knowing full well that Vaughn was a colleague of Sydney's at the State Department. John's girly laughter stopped as he noticed still-semi-shocked Vaughn's eyes widened while he tried desperately to think of a cover.  
  
Noting the expression on Vaughn's face and his wide eyes, John abruptly stopped laughing.  
  
"Oh. My. God. You do. I mean, you are. I mean, oh FUCK! You're a hot, male spy. This is so much better than the strippers that one time . . ." John slipped into his fantasies of being with a double agent while Vaughn abruptly turned around, and ran in the other direction.  
  
He didn't understand. Why was there a very, very stereotypical gay guy living in Sydney's house? Vaughn glanced down at the address written on his slightly-sweaty palm and then back at the house. This was it. Sydney wasn't there. He sank into the soft sands of the beach. 'Fuck.' What was he going to do now? -  
  
John turned to the interior of the house where Sydney Bristow was hiding in the corner.  
  
"Thanks, John. I don't think I could deal with that right now." She looked exhausted, mentally, physically, and spiritually. She was worn out and haggard.  
  
"What are friend for? You needed the facial, if nothing else. Plus, if you decide he's not your type, or not up to standards . . . I get first dibs." John giggled. "He's quite the cute one."  
  
"I don't think he swings your way." Sydney grinned back.  
  
"Never hurts to try. Imagine how many straight guys out there are just waiting for an opportunity like me to come 'round, but won't go seeking the experience. After all, how do you know you're not gay unless you've given us an equal shot?" John waited for Sydney's acknowledging nod before continuing, "Now, want to tell me what's going on? Why didn't you tell me you worked at the CIA? It's so much more romantic than the boring 'State Department' cover."  
  
Sydney took a deep breath before pouring into the story, starting with finding out that she was working for the enemy all the way up to coming back from her disappearance. John sat there nodding, occasionally making gasps or supportive comments at the appropriate moments.  
  
Syd had met John at Carrie's belated bachelorette party. Carrie and John had been close in college and had stuck together. She considered him "one of the gals". She also thought that he'd have the most fun with the strippers, that had "accidentally" showed up in the middle of the "serene", "subdued" gathering.  
  
Ever since meeting, Syd and John had gotten close. Now he was her friend and confidante.  
  
When Syd got to the point in her story when everyone but Vaughn realizes Lauren is an evil double agent for the covenant, John halted her with his hand.  
  
"What's her hair like?"  
  
"Her hair?" Sydney questioned in surprise.  
  
"Yeah, I'm not getting a full picture of her. You can tell a lot about a person by their hair." John waited for Sydney's response, but just got a pondering stare. "So what's her hair like?"  
  
"I don't know . . . It's blond," Syd finally spouted the most random, obvious thing she could think of about Lauren's hair.  
  
"Naturally? Or chemically?"  
  
"Chemically. Ugh. Horrible dye job. It's way too yellow - makes her look like she died last week, especially when she's wearing dark clothes."  
  
"Pale? Fake hair? Should have known she'd be evil. What about style?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Straight? Curly? Up? Down? Cornrows? Mohawk? Or is it a Mullet? Because that would explain her personality . . . Or lack thereof," John added as an afterthought.  
  
"She used to wear it straight, but recently she's been going for the sleek, but slight wave, neo-noir look. She could almost pull it off, if her eyebrows weren't pitch black."  
  
John gasped in horror at the news. "Why didn't you tell me right away? That explains so much."  
  
"Well, her very very very dark roots are coming in also." John's hand was now at his heart, trying vainly to calm it's rapid beating.  
  
"Stop! Stop! Now! My poor heart can't take any more of this horrible news. Not only is she ruining the femme fatal image," there was a dramatic pause inserted here, "She's doing it with roots."  
  
"Sorry, John, you just can't hide from the truth," Syd joked.  
  
He rolled his eyes. "Next you'll be telling me she descended from two feuding families of goat herders and sheep robbers."  
  
"It was tragic." Sydney agreed angelically.  
  
"Yes, one day the sheep robbers expanded the business to goats."  
  
"Everyone has to make a living somehow."  
  
"There was a huge court battle over the 'finders keepers' clause of the goat's contracts," John expanded the story.  
  
"And after all that, they ended up giving the goats to the judge."  
  
"He ate well for weeks." Sydney grimaced at this addition to the fable, but went on.  
  
"The families never mended their broken ties. Until one day, Ethel and Dave came along."  
  
"It was most appalling. She was engaged to be married. He was due to enter the seminary. She got pregnant. He took care of her."  
  
"But, the jealous fiancé never understood. He came to get Dave that night."  
  
"Poor Dave. He was never the same . . .Alive." John bowed his head in a moment of mock reverence. "Thank God that's not a true story. Can you imagine all the horrible Disney flicks that would be made?" John shuddered in mock horror. He looked at Syd's expression. "Tell me it's not true . . ." She still just gave him a knowing look. "Please?"  
  
"Sorry, but it would explain a lot."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Her aversion to wool."  
  
"And the hair."  
  
"True. I almost forgot about the hair."  
  
"What am I going to do with you? You really need to learn the finer points of hanging with gay guys. Number 1 : Hair is important. It's a vital accessory. Everyone has it. Even bald guys have hair. You can tell almost everything about a person from their hair. Just ask Elle Woods."  
  
"Umm, OK. John, how's about we leave off the martinis now." 

-  
  
Jack opened his eyes and looked down at the head lying on his chest. 'Needs to change the hairstyle. Kind of pretty, though. Could be worse. . .'  
  
He felt a stirring in his arms. Katya looked up at him with wide eyes.  
  
"I knew you'd be as good as you looked." When Jack's facial expression failed to register her compliment, she continued. "Want another go?" Without any reply, Jack lowered his face to meet hers . . .

-

-

-  
  
A/N: Sorry, Syd and Vaughn Fluff/Sex is coming soon. I didn't want to go too deep in these chapters. There will be less Lauren/Sark in the future (sorry, ya'll)- leave a review. (I work w/ a reward system.) 


	4. Je T'aime? Non

**Last Time on "Hot Ice"**  
  
_'Run or pizza? Run? Pizza? Run? Pizza?' . . .  
  
"I think it's time, once and for all, to find out how large you really are."  
  
He didn't understand. Why was there a very, very stereotypical gay guy living in Sydney's house? Vaughn glanced down at the address written on his slightly-sweaty palm and then back at the house. This was it. Sydney wasn't there. He sank into the soft sands of the beach. 'Fuck.' What was he going to do now?_  
  
**And Now Back to Our Program…**  
  
A creamy napkin stained with the tell-tale signs of pizza consumption was crushed in Eric Weiss' large hand. He leaned back into the cool leather fabric of his couch and turned on the TV. Flipping through the stations with the intensity of an award winning couch potato, the field ranked CIA agent finally decided on a Martha Stewart re-running about how to make the perfect fondue.  
  
Just as she was delving into the importance of presentation as the main focus of a meal, Weiss started having pains. With a hand on his chest he stumbled out the door.  
  
A block away from the CIA hospital, the pain became so intense Weiss couldn't even breath. He used his cell to call them, uttering only the corner at which he could be found and "hurry".  
  
Paramedics arrived seconds later to find Agent Eric Weiss passed out in the drivers seat with his hand near a piece of paper on which was written, "Syd and Vaughn: Karate always takes you away. Just act crazy 'kay?"  
  
-  
  
She rolled out of bed with the biggest hangover of her life. Drinking to forget was bad enough, but drinking to forget to remember was the worst. Sydney lurched into the bathroom and grimaced at her appearance. Mascara lingered under her eyes from the day before. Her bangs were flipped every which way, causing her to look as if she were a wanna-be-trying-hard Farrah Facet imitator, a far cry from the noble profession of Elvis impersonations not to mention the pay sucks ass.  
  
Sydney stumbled downstairs, each step jarring her head in numerous and extremely painful ways. A wave of nausea commandeered control of her stomach when the smell of cooking omelets hit her nose.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, John? It's like," Syd sneaked a glance at her watch, "eleven o'clock." She finished in a small voice.  
  
"Don't you mean eleven hundred hours?"  
  
Sydney discontinued her eye roll mid-eye discovering that moving any part of her head brought huge amounts of great pain reminiscent to the time creepy paralyzed dude who hadn't been paralyzed yet was pulling her teeth out. "You were fine with it yesterday. What changed?"  
  
"Realizing that my best friend has been lying to me ever since I first met her isn't exactly optimum, but . . ." his voice trailed off.  
  
"Shit, John. You know it's not like that. It's not like I had a choice. I don't _want_ to lie to my friends. I have no desire to betray all of the people I care about. You have no idea how hard it is not letting people get close enough to find out more about me. Not to mention lying to people I've just met. Every phone call, every time I have to leave in the middle of an outing, every time I have to defend my job at the "bank" or the "state office"." Sydney's voice caught in her throat. "It's horrible. Everywhere I go there's another lie, another web of deceit that I have to pick my way through without hanging myself in the threads."  
  
The silence dragged on painfully long before John stood up.  
  
"I guess you'll be needing some help so your head's clear enough to keep your covers." Sydney glanced up in surprise only find her nose touching a cold glass of reddish liquid.  
  
"Do I want to ask?"  
  
John grinned wickedly. "Just plug your nose and throw it down the back. Kind of like you were doing with the whiskey yesterday after the martinis were gone."  
  
Sydney was saved from replying to his oh-so-subtle jibes by grimacing at the odd tonic she was swallowing.  
  
"Mmm. Tasty." Syd declared in a monotone.  
  
"Yes, well I figured it would be perfect to offset the tomato, spinach, and mushroom omelets we would be enjoying this bright, beautiful morning."  
  
Sydney lurched to her feet and to the bathroom where she bowed to the porcelain god. A voice floated, gloatingly, over the sounds of her retching. "I take it that means that I'll be eating alone? Ah, well, more for me."  
  
Sydney glared at the point from which the voice must be coming from and rolled her eyes. She brushed her teeth and threw on some clothes.  
  
Holding her breath carefully, she snuck past the kitchen and out to the back porch, managing to unclog her nose long enough to throw a careless "going running" over her shoulder before stepping into the bright light. Even through the sunglasses that Sydney had chosen with care to block the most outer influences from her sensitive senses, the sun was brilliantly bright.  
  
"Oh, fuck," she murmured as a wave of pain rocked her once again. Sydney was secretly proud of herself for cussing as much as she had been recently. She was a closet potty-mouth. All through grade school and high school she had desperately wanted to fit in and use the language that all the other girls spoke with such fluency.  
  
Somehow, spoken by the right person, words like fuck, shit, bastard, asshole, and numerous others became poetry that could rival Frost, Tennyson, and not to mention the women poets. Harsh language described as "dirty" by so many generations of mothers and grandmothers, suddenly became as flowing as the lyrics to a tragic seventies ballad. Unfortunately, Sydney Ann Bristow, with her extensive resume and history of discovering unique talents just in time to save herself from certain death, had seemed to be missing several nucleotide bases when it came to the cursing fluency part of her genome. Until this instant, that is.  
  
Sydney sighed regretfully at not having discovered the secret to cussing before this hung-over moment and started off at a jogging pace. She breathed the salty sea air in deeply, a smell that cleared her mind and comforted her. She tried to forget everything that had occurred in the past fifteen hours. Sydney focused on the long stride of her legs and the feel of her muscles alternatingly contracting and relaxing.  
  
She closed her eyes against the wind.  
  
"Umph", and she abruptly fell over a large object in her pathway.  
  
Pushing herself into the "plank pose" from her yoga for beginners book, Sydney looked down at the form she was sprawled over. She gasped at his haggard appearance. Michael's normally clean-shaven face showed a sexy, but rough growth of beard, his eyes were framed by a dark shadow, and his white shirt was wrinkled. To top the whole picture off, sand was littered everywhere and Vaughn was missing a shoe.  
  
"Practicing for boot camp?" Sydney's heart melted at the sound of Vaughn's voice slightly roughened after sleeping.  
  
"I should ask you the same question. Why are you sleeping on the beach? And what happened to your shoe?" Sydney prepared herself to roll off of him, but his strong hand grabbed her arm in a silent request for her to stay where she was. Sydney lowered her head gently down onto his strong chest, relaxing to the smooth sound of his heartbeat.  
  
"I came to see you. I really need to talk to you. _We_ really need to talk." Sydney pushed back up off of Vaughn at the indirect reference to Lauren. This time he didn't stop her.  
  
"This is neither the time nor the place." Sydney's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Did you stay out here all night in hopes of catching me unawares?"  
  
Vaughn considered his options. "No."  
  
"No what?" Sydney practically shouted.  
  
"No, I did not wait for you. No, I did not sleep outside for you. And, no, I do not feel the unsuperiority that the rest of the male race succumbs to that would cause me to wish to find you "unawares"."  
  
A pregnant pause ensued Vaughn's speech at the end of which Sydney's face softened.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm being suspicious and stupid. I knew - I know better than to underestimate you."  
  
"Don't apologize to me, Sydney. I'm the one who needs to be sorry. I've been so -" Sydney tried to shush him, but he continued, "no - I need to say this. I've been so dumb, stupid, retarded, hell, you're the lit major, you tell me what other synonyms I've been."  
  
Sydney gave him a shy smile and replied, "injudicious."  
  
"Exactly. I've been an asshole. You were - are - just such a part of my life that I couldn't - I still can't - imagine losing you. Then you left. I didn't know what to think. I thought you were gone for good. I was lost. Then Lauren showed up and used me and my grief over you to manipulate me. I know I didn't love her. There was nothing like the way I felt - still feel - whenever you're around. I knew that I could never replace you or my feelings for you, but, in some sick convoluted way, I thought I could grow to really care about Lauren. We got married. Things weren't bad. Life seemed like it would just flow along. Then you came back."  
  
Sydney moved to protest again, but Vaughn, again, stopped her. "It wasn't a bad thing. You opened my eyes to what I had been faking with Lauren all along. How shitty our life really was. You have no idea how hard it was to see you and want you and to have her instead."  
  
"Don't patronize me, Michael. I know. I know how horrible it was for me to come home to a cold bed and cold ice cream instead of your warm arms. I know what it's like to work until midnight just so I'll be so exhausted I won't have time to reminisce and think of what you were doing with your wife right then. At least you had someone. I never pretended I didn't love you or that I don't still love you, but I can't put myself through that again."  
  
"Sydney, please just hear me out. I know I hurt you. I know I did stupid things. You came to me that she was a spy and I blew up at you. I couldn't stand to think that the one thing standing in my way to being with you was fake. I told you we would get coffee, and I turned around and comforted her. I told you I still loved you, and then I went back to her. I did all of these things thinking that I wouldn't have to deal with the consequences, but then when it came to, I didn't want to hurt her either. After all, I thought she was just an innocent. I know I hurt you with all of my stupid thoughtless actions. I know I did really really dumb things. But I can't let the past get in the way of the future. You're my future. You always have been. You're my past. Please, I'm just asking you to become my present."  
  
"Michael, you're still married. I can't." Vaughn looked down at his vacant ring finger. He looked back at Sydney.  
  
"I'm only married in name. Believe me, that will be remedied soon enough as it is, but I can't stand to be without you. I love you."  
  
Sydney looked into his eyes and felt her heart break. "Je t'aime?"  
  
"Non. Je t'adore."  
  
"Do you know what I heard about the French the other day?" Sydney asked teasingly.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"The term "french kiss" didn't originate in France! Isn't that horribly misleading? All of my life I just assumed that Frenchmen were naturally better at the afore stated method of snogging, but it's not to be assumed!"  
  
"I don't know. I'm sure that Frenchmen are better just because they have their reputation at stake."  
  
"Wanna bet?" Sydney offered with a gleam in her eye.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"If you, a Frenchman, can prove that the French are better kissers, well . . . we'll see what the wager ends up being." Vaughn's grin rivaled the sun in voltage as he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips slowly met hers, sparking a forest fire inside Sydney. His tongue probed her lips until she allowed him entrance.   
  
His hands roamed her body slowly like a blind man regaining his sight. Sydney returned the favor, ripping off Vaughn's jacket and shirt so she could caress his chest and body. Vaughn rolled them over so they were sitting and Sydney was straddling his waist. She giggled as a vibration touched her leg.  
  
"Michael! Sex toys?"  
  
He dragged his mouth away from the slow exploration of her body in order to respond.  
  
"No, Cell phone." He used her surprised "oh" as a means to gain entrance back into her mouth. Seconds later her cell vibrated also.  
  
"Oh, Shit," she muttered as she tossed the offending object to the side. She leaned back towards Vaughn. "Now where were we?" But her sentence was cut off by the insistent vibrating, this time of both phones.  
  
"Perhaps we should answer it, baby?"  
  
"Fine." Sydney climbed off of Vaughn and snapped open her cell.  
  
"What!"  
  
"Agent Eric Weiss is in the hospital. He keeps muttering your name. We thought it best to inform you."  
  
"I'll be there."  
  
Sydney turned back to Vaughn who was also hanging up.  
  
"Your car or mine?"  
  
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Sorry for the insane update wait. Finals were the devil, but studying pulled off. I took the SAT II in Bio, and I just got my first job. So it suffices to say that I haven't had a lot of time to write. My apologies. 


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